


Every Day You Play

by warmommy



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: F/M, Pablo Neruda's Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 06:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13428531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: From this prompt: It was over. You were in Paris. You and the Basterds were shacked up in some fancy hotel, still waiting on that boat to get home. The rooms were somewhat spread out, yours being closest to Stiglitz’. You each finally had a bed, a shower and all the privacy you wanted... Or so you thought. You soon discovered the walls were very thin when you heard Hugo calling... no wait, growling, your name. Uh-oh...





	Every Day You Play

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!

At first, you weren’t sure what you’d heard. Then, you turned over in your newly bounced upon bed and frowned at the wall, thinking Stiglitz was trying to get your attention. You gasped loudly as realisation sunk in, then mashed both hands over your mouth. Apparently, he had not heard, for he hadn’t cared, because he was still doing exactly what you thought he was doing, thinking about exactly whom you thought he was thinking about.

This was nothing new, in theory. You’d spent years tracking through France with these men who were like brothers to you–well, Stiglitz was decidedly not like a brother. If you got any closer than five feet, he’d walk away, he never wanted to talk to you, and so a few weeks after you and your beloved Basterd brothers rescued him from execution, you just quit trying. It all blew over. Stiglitz was always just there, just around, while you and the rest grew a bond so deep, your lives couldn’t possibly be the same without each other.

So what in the hell was this all about? Your thoughts quickly became too much for you to deal with, so you left the hotel. It wasn’t as if you weren’t in desperate need for new clothes–and damn it, after everything, you deserved clothes that were pretty.

You had nearly forgotten about the entire incident by the time you arrived back at the hotel, carrying an armful of bags and even a small sack of makeup and hair pins. Gone were the days of exchanging clothes with Hirschberg and Utivich like that was a normal thing. Gone were the days of itchy brown pants, layers of scarves, and wool socks that came up past your knees. No, from now on, you, Y/N L/N, were back to cute dresses, stockings, and heeled shoes with clasps.

The en suite bathroom was on the opposite side of your room, so even if Hugo was spending the day painting the place white, you didn’t hear any of it. After a long soak that had you groaning happily the whole way through, you shaved your legs, washed your hair, and emerged from the bath feeling a new woman. It gave you pause when you looked at yourself in the mirror, toweling your hair. Gone were any traces of blood or dirt or sweat, but those things would always remain.

You pushed these thoughts from your mind and opened your new pots of cosmetics on the counter. The list of invitations you and your brothers had gotten was longer than all of your arms and legs combined, so there would be somewhere to go, but, as you blended rouge against your cheeks and powdered your nose, you weren’t sure about going around with any of them. Hirschberg would spend at least an hour, if not the entire night, picking fun at you looking like a girl for the first time, and others would join in.

You felt too pretty to let them potentially get you down, so you called a number on the back of one of the dozens of cards you had beside the phone and spoke for twenty minutes with the restaurant owner, who insisted you have a beautiful table and that you bring not a single coin with you to pay. He was sending a car. You thanked him over and over before hanging up and choosing between your new dresses. You settled on a simple black and emerged from your room moments later in your stockings, heels, pocketbook, and undone zipper.

Keys clinking, you were just getting your door locked when you heard someone coming down the hall. “Wicki, that you? Can you zip me? I have to go.”

You turned. Of course it wasn’t Wicki. Stiglitz was dressed in actual civilian clothes, which he rarely ever did, and he was staring at you like an animal at the zoo.

“Don’t be an asshole,” you warned. “I’m a woman, and the war is over, so I get to look like one again. I’ll get someone from the front desk to zip my dress, don’t worry about it.”

He stepped in front of you, something of an amused smile on his face. “You’ve always been a woman and you’ve always looked like a woman. Turn around.”

You did as you were told with clunky motions, and, when his fingers grazed along your skin and dragged the gold zipper all the way to the top, your diaphragm tensed. You had to remind yourself to breathe before you faced him again. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I have to go.”

“Where?”

You blinked. This was the lengthiest exchange you’d ever had. And you had heard him jacking off with your name on his mouth just hours before. “Uh, it’s this place called Quelque Chose, it’s about twenty minutes away. The owner sent a car and it may be waiting, so I’ll see you later.” No. No, don’t do it. “…Unless you’d like to come?”

God _damn_  it, why? Why did you always have to do shit like this, play nice and polite?

“You’re going alone?”

You nodded slowly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There’s plenty wrong with that. Hold on.” He pushed his door open and entered the dark.

“Hey, you’re not doing me any fucking favours, okay?” Even if you ran, he’d catch up, so you crossed your arms and waited for him with your eyes pointed straight down.

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m not desperate for you to be there, I just thought it would be rude not to–”

“Shut up.” Hugo slammed a drawer shut inside his room. “The city’s gone crazy with joy and celebration. There’s still reports of German resistance trying to hunt people down, and here you are with a gigantic Basterd target on your back.”

“I am  _way_  too old for a babysitter,” you said forcefully.

He slipped out of the dark, his arms crossing. “Are you nervous about being alone with me?”

“I’ve known you for years, Hugo, why would I be?” you shrugged.

“Okay. Let’s go then.”

It turned out to be much more pleasant than you ever would have assumed. He talked like a normal person, laughed like a normal person, shared stories, smiled. You were finding out more about him now than in the combined years you’d known him, looked after his back. The owner of the place came out to talk to you both every so often, and Stiglitz would tense up immediately. As Bob came gliding up again, holding another bottle of champagne, you slid your hand over Stiglitz’s and drummed your fingers against his knuckles. The piano music tilted the entire atmosphere on its axis.

“Another bottle, I insist. More of the very best for our heroes!”

You spared a warm smile for him. “Last one! You’ve fed us so much, I’m not sure if my heels will still be able to support my weight when I stand up!”

“Oh, but you have not even chanced a look at the dessert menu, cherie!” Bob was a kindly middle-aged gentleman whose young son had converted to Judaism for marriage. Soon after the French occupation, the boy and his wife disappeared, never to be heard from again. Bob was one of millions eager to throw his hospitality and gratitude in the direction of the Inglourious Basterds.

“She said she doesn’t want any more,” Stiglitz snapped.

Without thinking, you slapped his wrist. “Please excuse my friend, Bob, he gets a bit cranky without his coffee.”

“Straight away, my good man, straight away! And promise me you’ll look at some of our decadent offerings–no charge, no cost!”

You pulled away your hand as soon as you were alone again. Sheepishly, you leaned a little closer. “Let him be nice. I know that it’s a bit much, but think about the gravity of the situation. There are people who would sign over all their earthly possessions to us, for what we did.”

“I don’t like it when people are pushy with you,” he snapped again. “You try to be polite, and they push anyway. What are you supposed to do? I don’t mind when people think I’m impolite.”

“Oh, so you were coming to my rescue?” You winked and laughed, hoping to lighten the air. “Just enjoy yourself, Stiglitz. It won’t always be like this. Have a good time while you can, before we leave Paris behind.”

“I don’t want to leave Paris behind,” he said abruptly, taking you a bit by surprise. “Not that I want  _this_ , all this fuss and attention. I’ve never been to America. I don’t know how to live there.”

You shrugged. “However you want, so long as you’re not stabbing guys you don’t like in the back of the head.”

“I won’t know anyone.”

“Now, see, I’ve always gotten the impression that you’ve never known  _anyone_ , that you’ve just never…” You pursed your lips comically and hummed. “You don’t strike me as the type of guy that ever had a bunch of relationships with others.”

“I  _did_ , before the Nazis,” Stiglitz said bitterly.

Your face fell, bit by bit, and your heart sank even lower. You cleared your throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

He shook his head and refilled his glass. “It doesn’t matter. You didn’t know. I never gave you any such impression–this is a pointless conversation.”

You cleared your throat and rubbed the back of your neck. “You’re going to be in New York. Me and Utivich are in Manhattan. Wicki is about an hour away. We’re friends. You didn’t die. You get to build a new life the way you want it to be.”

Stiglitz didn’t have a lot to say to that, but you both kept eating and drinking everything that was brought to you. Bob even brought a carton of cigarettes and laid them in the middle of the table, so, as far as things went, you and Stiglitz were set. He began to relax again, and it was good. You’d never seen the man relax before–oh, but you had  _heard_  him relaxing quite a bit–

Nope, mind, don’t go there, you begged of your own consciousness. The night had gone more than well, way better than you’d expected. The last thing you needed was to be right on the precipice of drunkenness and thinking about the man in front of you, hand wrapped around his cock, growling  _your_ name…

That was  _exactly_  what you were thinking about, staring at him from across the table, an unlit cigarette perched between your lips. He wasn’t doing anything, just looking right back at you, although he was actually managing to smoke like a normal human being. After a moment, he smirked at you, his eyes sparked, and he ran his fingers up and down the inside of your arm.

“You know.”

You blanched and jerked into an upright position. Your hands fumbled for the lighter. “What–ahem–what do you mean?”

He laughed heartily, leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, his eyes never leaving you.

“Look,” you held one hand up, shaking your head. “It’s–it’s fine, Stiglitz, we absolutely don’t have to and will not go there. We’re having a good night.”

“Ja? Well, I had a  _really_  good afternoon.”

Eyes wide and jaw dropping, you couldn’t manage words.

Stiglitz just laughed more.

“How come I’m the embarrassed one?”

“I have no idea, I don’t think it’s embarrassing. Maybe slightly. What I find more interesting is all of this, your own reaction. Why are you surprised?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Okay, I mean, I’ve been around almost no women for years, and all of us have always been close quarters or in the fucking woods, so there’s nothing surprising about jacking off–”

Stiglitz tilted his head and leaned so close your faces were almost touching. “You’re surprised that it was you. That’s even more interesting.”

You closed both your hands over his. “Stiglitz, please, it’s really not a big deal, we can stop talking about it and have a perfectly good night.”

“No, this bothers me. Do you not understand about yourself?”

“What about myself?”

“You are  _beautiful_ ,” he said. “You always were, right now you’re…like an angel. And just now, now that I’ve said this, you don’t believe me. What don’t you believe?”

“You don’t, uh, you don’t…like me.”

“Ja, I do.”

“Okay…” You gulped down a cold glass of champagne in one go. “Well, thank you.”

“Is it that you don’t want  _me_  to find you attractive or that you don’t think that any of us should?”

“It’s the kind of thing that just sort of flies out the window, when you live like we did,” you managed, pouring another glass. “It’s okay. I’m fine. We haven’t got to talk about it.”

“And you’re  _not_  bothered?”

You shook your head. “No. You do what you want.”

Stiglitz looked at you for a long time, stubbed his cigarette out on his plate, and stood, gesturing for you to follow. “Come on.”

Your head was just a bit spinny when you stood and walked behind him. Reaching back, he held your hand, making the whole of yours disappear beneath his. He took you to a dark little alcove near the kitchens, behind a large, potted tree, and shoved you against the wall. He bit and licked and kissed your lips, his hands and fingers mussing the little black dress you’d chosen hours earlier. You never would’ve suspected he would be so  _good_  at this. Maybe it was that, maybe it was a combined effect of this and great food and cigarettes and bottomless champagne. You flattened your back against the wall and pulled him closer with both arms.

When he growled your name, you felt your knees weaken and move apart.

“We have to go,” you said, and Stiglitz simply took you by the hand again and guided you through the restaurant, out the front door.

In the back of the cab, his hands took on new life, and your lips did not hesitate on his, on his neck, on his chest.

At the hotel, you were running past others, avoiding Smithson’s eyes as you passed in the hall, and Stiglitz almost kicked your door down when you couldn’t immediately produce your keys. Once inside, he slammed the door shut and carried you over to the bed.

This was like nothing you had felt since before the war began. There was no reason to be afraid. No immediate threat, none looming. There was nowhere to be, nothing to do, no one to kill. Just you. Just you and him. He reached back to pull the zipper on your dress down, inch by inch.

“You may’ve guessed it wasn’t the first time,” he panted. “The first time was the night I met you, after we fled the prison scene. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.” Stiglitz fought to release you from the stuffy confines of your clothes. “I never stopped thinking it, so I never stopped doing it. I never imagined someone like  _you_ …” he cut himself off when his rough hands closed over your breasts and hid them from view. He breathed out shakily. “Someone like  _you_ , and someone like  _me_ …”

You scoffed. “Well, that’s stupid.”

He laughed quietly against the side of your neck, kissing his way up. “Tell me you’re mine.” He covered your mouth with his hand when you gasped. “You only have to  _tell_  me. Of course it’s not true. I just want to hear.”

You smiled and lay back, arms spread. “So, all of this time, Stiglitz has been getting off by imagining Y/N L/N whispering, ‘Hugo, I’m yours’.”

He pulled your garter belt down, then your underwear, and then moved very gently on top of you, like he knew he didn’t belong there. “Among other things. What do you want  _me_  to do?”

You couldn’t help the smile that came next, or grazing your fingers against the short hairs on his neck. “I just want to feel what you want to make me feel.”

Stiglitz shook his head, raising his eyebrows to seek permission to remove his own clothes. When you nodded, he went on. “Have you heard of Pablo Neruda? He’s one of the greatest poets of our time. He writes things that make you burn for love, and the most erotic lines I’ve ever read.”

“Do you know any?” You asked against his naked shoulder.

He smiled at the dark corner near the bed and how you relaxed into all of his little touches. “ **Every day you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water. You are more than this white head that I hold tightly as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.** ”

He kissed you again, your naked thighs in contact.

“ **You are like nobody since I love you. Let me spread you out among yellow garlands. Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh, let me remember you as you were before you existed. Suddenly…oh…the wind howls and bangs at my shut window. The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish. Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them. The rain takes off her clothes**.”

Before today, and ever since he had known you, Stiglitz had fantasized about what he was doing now. His lips dragging hot over your skin, how your body yielded to his. You closed your eyes, smiled.

“ **The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. The wind. I alone can contend against the power of men. The storm whirls dark leaves and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky. You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Curl round me as though you were frightened. Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes…** ”

Now, and for the first time, it was you that kissed him. He grew too enthusiastic, started to bite his way down to your neck again.

“ **Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your breasts smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies, I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans**.”

“All of this poem,” You breathed heavily as his fingers curled between your legs. “Are you making it up? Is it for us?”

“I’m not making it up, but it might be for us,” he gasped. Your hips jerked, and you grabbed his shoulder tight. “ **My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. Until I even believe that you own the universe. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.** ”

“Hugo…” you breathed, unable to move or breathe from the weight of it all, and wanting so much more.

He moved above you, and, when near your ear, he took care to push away your hair so that his lips rested against the bare skin. “Y/N. **I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.** ”

Your sex, swollen and slick, welcomed him as readily as did your words and your mind. He was growling just as he had before, when you’d heard your name in that way you had never heard it before. Your thighs trembled around him.

That was only the beginning of the poem.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!


End file.
